


He Does Not Belong To Himself Only...

by CloudandStar



Series: Scenes from Hamlet [1]
Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Declarations Of Love, Doomed Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Pillow Talk, Prequel, Queering the Classics, Queering the Western Canon of Literature, Romance, Secret love, hidden love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 21:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19912327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudandStar/pseuds/CloudandStar
Summary: Hamlet and Horatio have a reluctant late night discussion about the future of their love affair, Hamlet's inevitable marriage of duty, and future reign, while between trysts.





	He Does Not Belong To Himself Only...

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is the first piece I'm posting to this archive. This one just cried out to be written and I enjoyed writing it very much. 
> 
> If you can't tell from reading this, M/M doomed love ships are my crack. And I 100% like to imagine this relationship as canon because I find it more interesting and complicated than Hamlet/Ophelia. 
> 
> Plus, who are we kidding, I love to queer the classics at ANY given opportunity. I'm a big fan of gay protagonists. There's been enough stories about heterosexual protagonists, as far as I'm concerned, and yes, gay side characters deserve all the love they get, but it's about time the main character was gay, too. Hence, a queer Hamlet. (Though I think if you squint-- not even that much-- it's pretty easy to see this interpretation in Canon too.)
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoy. I like to hear from my readers.
> 
> Thanks and happy reading!

***

They are laughing together under the covers in Horatio's room. He so loves it to see Hamlet full of cheer and joy, and it brings the same emotions out in him. If it is not Hamlet's joy that stirs his own, then it is his presence that does it. There is no feeling like being loved by him, and returning his love. No feeling like touching him, or being touched in return. At times, even in their most intimate, beautiful moments together, Horatio cannot help but burst out in laughter at the joy of the experience. It is like the sun, never dimming with time. A constant, through their school days, and a constant following them back to Elsinore; though they must be more careful here.

Still, they freely visit each others rooms, though Hamlet prefers to come to Horatio's quarters. He says it is because they are full of him; even though they are only guest rooms leant to his keeping. He fills them entirely, according to Hamlet. His very presence enchants and inserts itself into every fabric, every stone, every piece of carved wood, every metal. He would rather sit in Horatio's rooms, and let all that Horatio has penetrated and ensnared with his presence pass the same infection on to him, and make him heady with it. Of course, he loves to bring Horatio to his room, to walk him through the castle, the gardens, so Horatio may infect every inch of Hamlet's home-- but it is his own chambers that bear the strongest residue, as they are blessed with guarding him through his slumber each night. He longs to be as deeply infected by Horatio, he says, as Horatio's own bed linens are-- to be so totally sick with him that he be too far gone for cure or treatment: that he may die of Horatio's love.

Horatio has long since grown accustomed to Hamlet's melodramatic ramblings. At school, many of their friends openly jibe Hamlet for them. But to Horatio, they have grown precious with time, and each one that Hamlet gifts to him now, he takes very great care in remembering to the smallest detail. Hamlet feels life so painfully, and in such extremes that Horatio finds his melodrama has colored his own grey life. He feels his own life more fully now, because he has been blessed to now Hamlet's mind, and heart, and to listen to melodramatic ramblings such as these. Even when he and Hamlet are apart, when he sits alone in his guest chambers now, he imagines he can feel himself sinking into his surroundings. He imagines that even when Hamlet is elsewhere in the castle, he, Horatio, is somewhere inside him, spreading through his body like a plague.

He is so beautiful as he is, when they are alone-- his hair the color of gold, and his face chiseled and carved-- a regal face that should be intimidating, yet is instead softened and made human by Hamlet's many varying humours. He is beautiful now, as he is laughing hard enough to cry in Horatio's bed, the tears highlighting the angles of his face and making him shine to be the envy of the Almighty's fairest angels. And he is allHoratio's.

The thought so overwhelms him that he embraces Hamlet with new fervour, and thinks he can love him again, even after so many times this night.

"You are mine and I am yours," Horatio cannot repress, and _must_ say. It comes out completely entwined with the exhalation of his breath. He does not need air if he can breathe words like these instead. He presses his lips to Hamlet's greedily, moving against him, hunger stirring again between his legs.

He feels Hamlet's laughter still in his mouth, can feel his humour shift as forcefully as the moment of sunset, with all the violence of those streaking reds and oranges. He pulls back, and finds confirmation of this in Hamlet's expression.

Hamlet sits up, moving the blanket back. "Horatio... I know you saw Ophelia and I in the garden today. Does it bother you? Does it make you jealous?" His eyes are filled with concern.

Horatio shakes his head. "No. Do not speak of the outside world when we are alone. It cannot reach us here. Do not think of such heavy things while I have you. Our time together is light and buoyant. Let it remain so." Horatio moves to kiss him again, but Hamlet's hand moves to rest on Horatio's upper arm, gripping it lightly.

"I know that is our agreement," Hamlet replies. "But the thought struck me, and I must know your answer. It hurt me to see you in the garden, with her next to me." Hamlet's other hand moves to Horatio's cheek, his thumb trailing Horatio's cheek bone. "You know I hate it when you cannot be at my side. It is your place. It is wrong that anyone else should possess it."

Horatio sighs. When Hamlet's moods shift, there is nothing to do but follow them. And they were laughing in exuberance only moments ago.

"It does make me jealous," Horatio admits, moving to sit so he can properly face Hamlet. "But not for the reason you fear. You fear that I believe you could ever be untrue to me. That when I see you with Ophelia, I believe your smiles for her are genuine, and that her kisses are your treasures. But I do not believe this."

A look of relief takes Hamlet's face, but Horatio goes on. He moves his hand to rest it on the skin of Hamlet's chest. His last remaining article of clothing, his undershirt, gapes wide at either side of his hand. He enjoys the feel of Hamlet's bones beneath his touch. If he flexes his hand just so, he can almost feel Hamlet's heart beat.

"You would never be unfaithful to me, in your heart," He speaks. "Whatever it is you have to do with your body, and whatever it is you must do with your mouth, either in speech or in kissing, I know that I am the only one who owns your heart. As you are the only one who owns mine."

Hamlet pulls Horatio to his lips again, and Horatio meets him gladly. They kiss for some moments, the headboard creaking behind Hamlet's back. Hamlet breaks the kiss by turning his jaw just an inch to the side. Horatio follows his cue, and pulls back again.

"But seeing her does make you jealous," Hamlet notes. "You said so."

"Yes," Horatio says. "I burn with horrible envy-- because she may walk with you in the garden, and put her hand about your arm. She may walk with you in the garden, and rest her head upon your shoulder. She may steal a kiss from your cheek or your mouth, and take up your hand at will. She may do all this with the sun shining down upon her. I walk the same paths with you, under sunlight, but these delights are forbidden me. For this reason only do I envy her."

Hamlet tilts his head in a smile. "I would treasure your kisses more, and the feel of your hand in mine, or your holding fast to my arm. We may steal these delights on a moonlit walk-- we could go now." Hamlet stirs to get up, but Horatio stops him with a hand.

"These gifts would be sweet to me at any time," He says. "But they are sweetest under cover of sun. And under cover of sun, they can never be tasted."

Hamlet stills again. "Verily. It is so." He sighs. "But you know she is nothing to me." He speaks the last phrase more for himself, as if he is quieting or calming some part of his mind with this information.

Hamlet sits up further, away from the headboard, his eyes darkening. A thought has struck him. "Horatio... you know that I am prince."

"I know it," Horatio acknowledges, giving a nod of supplication.

"And that one day, I will be king." Hamlet squares his shoulders, as if to bear the weight of the sentence.

"A wise, good, and mighty king, my lord." Horatio affirms. It is rare that they acknowledge the hierarchy between them when they are alone. Horatio only dares speak of it when he senses Hamlet is buckling under the weight of his future, and needs some encouragement.

"And you know that as king-- I must give Denmark a queen. I must give the house of my father an heir."

Horatio takes a cautious breath. He tries very hard not to think of this. "I know it, my lord." He says, quietly.

"I am the only one of my line, Horatio," He speaks, as if he must force himself to recite the words. Hamlet has passed from speaking with Horatio to speaking to him. He does not need these phrases to be heard, or responded to, any longer-- he needs only to say them. Horatio will let him. "My uncle has never married. There is no cousin who might take my place and do my duty -- and my mother has passed beyond childbearing age. I am the only one."

Horatio nods once.

"So I must have my queen. I must have my own prince, or the house will die with me. And--"

He sighs. "Ophelia is suitable to these purposes. She is a pleasant enough girl, though her charms are wasted on me. But she will be as good and kind of a queen as Denmark could hope for. I need only secure her engagement from her father-- I know it would put my own father's mind at rest."

A shift in Hamlet's expression-- Horatio senses it is time for him to take up his side of the conversation again. "Your father worries?"

Hamlet nods. "Sometimes, when he looks at me, I think he knows. When I speak of you, he gives me a wry, fond look. I can never long refrain from speaking of you-- some brilliant thing you said, or some humorous delight you shared, or some feat of great skill you achieved. You fill my mind with your glories, Horatio. I cannot repress them and keep them all to myself."

Horatio swallows. How easily Hamlet stumbles into praising and proclaiming his greatness. He is blind to his own magic because of it. Horatio lets it pass. "He looks at you fondly -- he does not resent you? Or me?"

Hamlet shakes his head. "I have never felt... quite brave enough to speak and ask him directly. But there is a sense I get from him, often... that if I rescinded my courting of Ophelia, and if I kept you at my side each day, taking your hand when I would, or kissing you where I wished-- that my father would not care. Would perhaps be happy to see it."

Hamlet has never shared this impression with Horatio before. He can feel the hope burning in his chest.

"I would do it if I could but trust myself...!" Hamlet hisses, gripping his fists in frustration. "Yes, my father would be happy for my happiness, if you and I became known about the castle. He has often told me that I must enjoy and revel in the freedom of my life now, for when I become king, I will no longer belong to myself, but to Denmark. He would be happy, and uncaring, because my father trusts me entirely -- he would believe in his soul that when the time came, I would put you aside again, and do my duty."

Horatio considers Hamlet, hanging on his next words.

"But I do not trust myself so. My father is wrong about me. If I had you entirely, under the eye of the whole castle, I could never again give you up and return to hiding in the shadows, and put a woman in your place." Hamlet shakes his head. "I am weak, Horatio, and selfish." There are tears in his eyes now.

"I would know all that I know now-- I would know that refusing my duty would end my house. But I would not be able to give you up. I would be the ruin of my house, if I stepped with you into the daylight as I so wish to. And I would be its ruin gladly." His tears are highlighting the curves of his face again-- but unlike his tears of laughter, these do not thrill Horatio's very soul. They make it burn, and ache.

Horatio puts a hand on Hamlet's shoulder. He would wipe the tears from his face if he did not know how Hamlet hates to have his tears dried when he is in one of his self-attacking moods.

Hamlet's shoulders shake in silent tears for a moment. Horatio grips his shoulder harder, but says nothing. After a moment, he dries his own tears, and clears his throat. Horatio takes his hand back.

"So I must have Ophelia... and the sooner I can confirm our engagement with that father of hers, the better. I must not walk with you in the garden as I walk with her, or kiss you in the halls, because word would get back to that old... thing. And he would call our courtship off." Hamlet sighs again. This is why Horatio does not like to speak of their lives outside. He hates to see Hamlet so burdened, and he knows he carries many burdens near constantly outside of Horatio's rooms.

"It is easier with Ophelia, because there is a history. It would be harder to start completely fresh, and seek out an unknown maiden. I am close now, I know it. And the sooner the better," He repeats. "I would give my father an heir before he passes. When old age takes him, I want him to know that his line is secure. And he might pass at any time."

Horatio frowns. "But he is in good health, Hamlet. He moves like a man half his age."

"To my undying relief," Hamlet affirms. "Yet... I feel the strangest premonition at times, Horatio. The sense that the everlasting might soon take him from me. He is only nearing the end of his middle age-- yet I feel that at any moment, some attack might unmake him. At times, when we dine together, I expect him to choke to death before me. I could be king sooner than I expect. Perhaps even before I have the chance to finish my schooling. You understand this?"

Horatio nods. Hamlet goes on. "That is... if my father is lucky enough to die in old age. Kings are often denied the luxury, either by battle, or... private treachery." A shadow crosses Hamlet's face, but he does not elaborate.

Horatio does not press him. He has concerns of his own now that he does not want to hide. "My lord...," he says, because it is fitting, given the subject. "If your father died, and the marriage to Ophelia goes through, and you have your heir-- would you send me away? Would you leave me behind you, at Wittenberg?"

Hamlet seizes Horatio, gripping his chin and pulling his face close to Hamlet's own. "Horatio, I would sooner send away my own arm."

Horatio cannot stop the smile that is spreading across his face. And then they are kissing again -- it is impossible to know who started it-- fiercely, and Hamlet is falling back onto the mattress, Horatio following him down, Hamlet's hands burning into the sides of Horatio's face, as if he is desperate to hold onto him, to not let even one inch of space come between them.

"Hamlet--" Horatio pulls away, because it is important. He must say it. "I love you."

Hamlet makes a cry that sounds like a howl of frustration. He rolls them over, pressing Horatio into the bed.

"I will not think of Elsinore any longer tonight, Horatio -- nor of my father, or of Ophelia, or of my waiting heirs." He presses a kiss to Horatio's cheek. "I thank you for indulging me so long. I may be sworn to Denmark, but I belong only to you." Hamlet begins moving against him, with an inflamed passion. He grits out his next words, rutting between Horatio's legs, dragging their members along each other. "I will only ever belong to you. I will bring you into my marriage bed and reclaim it with you-- I will call you into my chambers every night, I will bring you to live with me at Elsinore as my closest advisor--!" He slows again, chest heaving, as his face falls. "I am sorry I cannot give you more than that."

"You do give me more than that," Horatio corrects. He is near panting himself, from Hamlet's fevered exertion. Sweat has broken out on his skin, and on Hamlet's. "You give me the world every night. Forget the bonds of duty, now. You have given me more than I would ever have dared to ask of you."

"Horatio--" Hamlet says, as if the words are being torn from him painfully. Horatio prepares himself to commit his lover's next phrases to memory. He knows by the look on his face that they will be worth more than gold.

"My sun, and stars and moon... more precious than the jewels in the crown of Denmark, more beautiful than the throne that waits for me, and brighter and more lovely than Ophelia on her fairest day... I love you deeply, I love you totally... your sickness has completely consumed me, and I will die from it, Horatio." He grips Horatio, shaking him. "I will die from your love, do you understand? and I will die smiling... you are more beautiful than anything in this castle, than any rose in its gardens... you are dearer to me than my own life..." Hamlet trails off, his eyes distant. "There are no words suitable for you, my beloved, my dear one... the only word appropriate is your name. Horatio, Horatio, Horatio..." He is pressing kisses into him again, and Horatio does not think he can wait much longer for Hamlet's love.

Horatio swallows something that was probably a sequence of tears waiting to be spilt. "I am yours only, my lord. I will be at your side as long as you would have me there."

Hamlet buries his face into Horatio's neck. "Then it will be forever, Horatio. You will be there forever."

***

**Author's Note:**

> I might dabble around in this behind-the-scenes world more in future if any other scenes catch my imagination, and I've created a series for it just in case. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Until the next time!


End file.
